Nick Fury's Home for the Teenage Superhero
by RebelzHeart
Summary: In which Nick somehow adopts all the Avengers. Teenage Superhero AU
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** Lots of swearing. Like, lots.

* * *

Nick doesn't know how this happened, he swears.

Well... alright, fine. Maybe he does. Kind of.

The fucking council and his soft heart.

(He'll swear up and down that he's as cold as stone, but ask anybody and they'll laugh in your face.)

Tony Stark is the first.

17 and a bit too big for his breeches, the arrogant heir to Stark Industries has just returned from his "trip" to Afghanistan and is being "reintroduced to the culture".

Which is to say that the kid has PTSD a bit early and Nick swears he doesn't deal with this kind of shit except he kind of does and for some reason the council thinks it's a great idea for him to adopt the fucking kid.

Just... what the fuck.

What the serious fuck.

What part of _Nick_ , as in, sharp, potty mouthed, I-don't-do-emotions Nick Fury, seems like he'd be a good parental figure?

Especially for a kid who's so obviously mentally scarred.

And yet, here he is, in front of a fucking 17 year old, and trying very hard to censor himself because Hill ( _why_ , Hill) has set up a Swear Jar.

Let him repeat this, because the concept is so ridiculous and horrifying that Nick just has to repeat it.

 _Maria fucking Hill has made a Swear Jar for Nick swears-every-other-sentence Fury._

Something is wrong here.

So, utterly, completely, _wrong_.

He's going to be bankrupt by the end of the day.

* * *

The kid is exactly as his profile described him, loud and arrogant and rude and trying to play cocky despite the fact that he flinches around water. His fingers twiddle around his little machine, ever moving, never stopping, rearranging wires perfectly even as his sharp eyes remain on Fury's face.

Nick gives him a quick once over, scrunches up his nose, and says, "You have a workshop and a bedroom. Don't tell me about your sex, and I'll pretend I don't notice."

Stark grins at him, all thin lips and bared teeth, and makes an obnoxious comment about Nick's sex life.

Oh, it almost makes this whole situation worth it, that Stark is so obviously going to stay out of his way and not prod.

Almost.

But he knows that he'll still have to deal with the kid, both parties willing or not.

Nick doesn't even bother responding, just raises an eyebrow and adds, "There's a pool out back. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

It's a low blow, he can tell by the way that Stark immediately _stills_ , fingers freezing and smile drooping. Then he snarls, harsh and tight, "I will," and Nick grins.

The kid, he can tell, refuses to be cowed by anybody.

If he were only a bit older, Nick could recruit him to join SHIELD. Fight for him, be on his team.

But he's young, and while Nick is a soldier and this wouldn't typically be an issue, it's peacetime and he would rather not drag a minor into his own mess called a life.

"Oh, I know you will," Nick mirror's Stark's smile, bared teeth and curled lips. "I look forwards to your moving in."

"I'd say likewise," The kid sneers, "But I barely know you."

"We'll change that," Nick promises, and Stark just rolls his eyes.

"I'll be gone by the end of the week," He promises.

Nick laughs.

The kid is so, utterly wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

He's a pretty boy, Tony thinks.

Golden locks, curling just past the tips of his ears, freckles on his cheeks, eyes as green as the sea. Long eyelashes, thin fingers, and a smile like the sun.

So Tony doesn't regret it, doesn't regret it when he is drunk and flirts and ends up behind the bar, the pretty boy laughing as his friends sneer _fag_ and stomp on his fingers.

(Okay. Fine. He regrets it. Just a little. But it teaches him an important lesson: don't flirt with pretty boys in bars.)

He returns to the tower with a spit lip and bruised fingers, and when he comes back, there's a boy with blond hair and eyes like the summer sky reading a book on WWII on the sofa.

"You must be Tony," The boy smiles, sunny and golden and broad shouldered and Tony bites back some stupid line about the boy being like a summer's day, instead opting to nod and shake the boy's offered hand. "I'm Steve. Steve Rogers. I'm, ah, Mr. Fury's newest charge? I hope that's okay."

"It's fine," Tony answers, voice hoarse, thinking it isn't fair that Steve gets to give Tony the first impression of looking tough but handsome and Tony gives Steve the impression that he gets beat up easily. (Which is true, but it doesn't happen that often, so it's mostly fine.) "Sorry about how I, um, look," he makes a vague gesture at his face and cracks a grin, "I usually look prettier."

He bites back any hesitance, settling for a cocky grin instead, and he's rewarded when Steve laughs a little. "Don't worry, you look fine," Steve reassures him, "I used to get beat up all the time, too."

Tony squints, "I assume this was before you decided to be a bodybuilder?"

"Definitely," Steve's smile is a bit sheepish now, and he rubs the back of his neck, "I don't regret it, per say, but part of me kind of thinks, if I grew up this buff, I probably wouldn't have been beat up in so many alleyways."

It's Tony's turn to laugh this time, "Did you have any reason to get beat up or were you just in the habit of picking fights you couldn't win?"

"That..." Steve huffs, "It's going to sound really self-righteous when I say this, I know, but I just got really mad when people disrespected soldiers, you know? Like when there was a PSA about soldiers dying and some guy was booing and yelling at the screen, I told him to be more respectful and ended up with," he smiles self deprecatingly, "Well, I ended up getting beat up."

"Wow, you're right," Tony flops down on the couch and Steve sits down, too, "That does sound self-righteous."

Steve's smile freezes.

"But it's good on you, doing stuff like that," Tony continues, inclining his head, "Maybe the execution wasn't the best, but you had your heart in the right place."

Steve's smile is a bit more nice this time, a bit more relaxed, "Heart's the most important thing, I think."

Tony hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and then he glances at the book, "World War II? You into that kind of stuff or just an avid reader?"

"A bit of both?" Steve fiddles with the cover, "I'm not much of a technology guy."

"That's worrisome," Tony leans back, locking his fingers behind his head, "Because I am _the_ technology guy."

"I don't suppose we could find a middle ground somehow?" Steve raises his eyebrows.

"I'm sure that we can," Tony reassures him, "We can form the 'used-to-get-beat-up' club as soon as my injuries heal."

Steve barks with laughter, "I was going to say something like 'I hope we get along' but I think we'll be fine. Mr. Fury seemed a bit worried."

Tony raises an eyebrow, "Worried? As in he was swearing a bit more than usual?"

"I wouldn't know what the usual was," Steve turns a bit red, "But he only swore three times. Said something about a swear jar?"

"Right, right," Tony nods, "What _did_ he say?"

"He said," Steve cleared his throat and adopted a stern expression, his attempt at mimicking Fury, " _I'm hoping you get along with the fucking other brat or we're going to have some fucking problems, you got me?_ "

Well. Ah... "I suppose that worried is one way you could describe that sentence," Tony snorted.

"It's going to be my way," Steve said, expression clear and firm.

"Good on you, then," Tony clapped his shoulder, "Positivity. I like it." Steve grins, and Tony chooses that moment to ask, "Hey, if you're repeating what someone else said and you swear, does that still count to the swear jar? Because I'm pretty sure that's contributing to our college savings or something."

* * *

Nick stares.

Blinks.

Rubs his eyes.

Glances at the clock to make sure it is the time that he thinks it is.

Yep.

Still three-o-fucking-clock.

"You're supposed to be asleep," he says in a voice that sounds a lot less angry that he had intended it to be. He blames the fact that he just came back from a three hour plane ride that had a two hour debriefing.

Steve fucking Rogers blinks owlishly at Nick and says innocently, " _You're_ still awake."

"First of all," Nick is going to say something stupid, he knows it, but it is too late and his brain to mouth filter doesn't want to work any time soon, "I have a secret spy organization to run, and _second of all_ , I'm not some 17-year-old punk who has school the next day."

Rogers _lights up_ like a fucking Christmas tree, "I have _school_?" he asks, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

"Home school," Nick amends, "You're being taught by an agent with Stark."

"Oh, I'm being home schooled with Tony?" Rogers smiles eagerly. Nick vaguely puts that away, _they get along_ , good, that makes his life so much easier. "That's pretty cool!"

"It'll be a lot cooler if you get a good night's rest beforehand," Nick realizes with dawning horror how parental that sentence sounded, but he continues because confidence must be shown no matter what the situation, even if you're trying not to sound like a parent but you do, "Go to sleep. It's past your bedtime."

Let him shoot someone right now, please.

"I have a bedtime?" Rogers gapes.

"Shut your mouth, you'll catch flies," Nick rubs his temple, "Yes. 11p.m. is your bedtime, effective immediately, and it is past it. Do it again and I'll..." what will he do? "I'll ground you."

Roger's mouth is _still_ open.

"Do you not know where your room is?" Nick demands.

"Thank you, sir!" Rogers scrambles off to his room, leaving Nick sigh in the kitchen.

Maybe he will take up Hill on those parenting books, it seemed... slightly effective.

(Not that he'd tell her. She'd be so smug.)


End file.
